


out of the red

by oryx



Category: Kamen Rider Den-O
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 05:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: Momo attempts to navigate the boyfriend stage.





	out of the red

**Author's Note:**

> vaguely heigen forever adjacent. alternate title: tfw ur a simple peach and the man you love is so hot?? what the hell??

  
“Oh my,” the turtle murmurs. “Looks like he’s reeled in another one.”  
   
He’s looking past Momo’s shoulder, and with a muttered “haa?” he turns to peer in that direction as well, to where Ryotaro, halfway back to their table with a cup of coffee in hand, has been waylaid by a stranger. A tall touristy-looking guy, blond and broad-shouldered, all toothy smiles and annoying handsomeness. He’s standing just a bit too intimately close as he talks.  
   
“That’s the third this month,” Ura adds. “He’s really gotten to be popular, hasn’t he?”  
   
Momo scowls, foot tapping out an agitated rhythm beneath the table. “These people got no decorum, bothering a guy when he’s just tryna relax. Bastards.”  
   
He turns back to find Ura giving him an exasperated look.  
   
“And that’s it, hm? That’s your response to seeing someone flirting with your boyfriend?”  
   
That word, as usual, is like being hit with an electric jolt. Momo sits bolt upright in his seat, sand suddenly hot beneath his skin. “That’s – you – ” he hisses. “Ryotaro can handle himself! He’s not some weakling, y’know. Doesn’t need me to save him from some – some boring asshole trying out pickup artist tips!”  
   
“Obviously he doesn’t  _need_  you to, senpai. That’s not the point.”  
   
Some of the anxious tension fades from his body as he blinks. “Wh. What d’you mean, then?”  
   
Ura sighs wearily, pressing two fingers to his temple. “You are so hopeless at the game of love it would be impressive if it wasn’t so hard to watch. And hilarious if you weren’t dating someone whose happiness I happen to be invested in. But no, even so, I am not going to spell this one out for you. I refuse. I know you, and you are never going to improve unless you do it of your own accord.”  
   
Momo slumps back in his seat with a grumbled “what the hell, turtle bastard.”  
   
Ryotaro pulls up his own chair a moment later, a mildly bemused smile tugging at his mouth.  
   
“Well? Did that handsome gentleman get your number?” Ura asks, teasing.  
   
Ryotaro gives him a wry glance over the rim of his coffee cup. “No, he didn’t.”  
   
Momo’s foot pauses in its uneasy tapping. “What, uh. What did you tell him?”  
   
When Ryotaro meets his eyes, there’s a subtle, knowing look there that makes him feel strangely small and diminished. As if he’s forgotten some part of himself; left it back on the train like humans do with their coats and bags.  
   
“I said I was already spoken for,” he says simply.  
   
“Right,” Momo says, stilted. “Right, yeah, that’s. Good.”  
   
Out of the corner of his eye he can see Ura drag a hand down his face, looking a bit like he’s in physical pain.  
   
  
   
  
   
The thing he’s noticed is that human stories about romance always seem to stop right when it all comes together.  
   
Not like he doesn’t get it, of course. The stuff before – that’s the exciting part, right? He’s a bit of a sucker for it, too, he can’t deny. Watching the “will they, won’t they” play out onscreen. The theater in Terminal 3 plays movies like that on the regular, and Naomi will drag him along to see them with her whenever they stop over. (She cries sometimes when they’re particularly sentimental. Obviously  _he_  never gets that invested. Obviously.)  
   
If him and Ryotaro were in a movie, he imagines the climax as taking place here:  
   
Half a year ago. Owner had gathered them in the dining car for an announcement, something about a “new hire” for this “Time Patroller” business he and the Station Master had been trying to make happen. Partially a ruse, in typical Owner fashion. Ryotaro had stepped out with a smile, and he’d looked so beautiful and grown-up, and it had finally truly hit him how many years had gone by in the human world since the day they first met.  
   
It had been months since he’d last seen him, at Sakurai’s birthday party on the Zeroliner, where Ryotaro had confessed during a quiet moment that although he was still happy he was beginning to feel out of step with normal everyday life, as if he were constantly waiting for something (“waiting for a train, maybe,” he’d said drily). And of course Momo had hoped. He hadn’t said anything outright, not wanting to jinx it, but he’d hoped that meant he might come back to them for real.  
   
And he had.  
   
“Sorry for being late, everyone,” Ryotaro had said, laughing, as the kid and the bear had nearly hugged him to death, the turtle uncharacteristically choked up as he patted his cheek.  
   
When their eyes had met Momo had felt rooted to the spot. He can still remember the exact soft expression on Ryotaro’s face as he’d reached up to press his palm against Momo’s jawline.  
   
“You’ll still fight with me, right, Momotaros?” he’d said. “Even though it’s been a while?”  
   
“Don’t be stupid,” Momo had said, throat tight, covering his hand with his own. “You wished ‘to the very end,’ didn’t you?”  
   
Ryotaro had smiled against his mouth as he kissed him.  
   
Music swells. Fade to black. Credits roll. A picture-perfect human romance movie ending, if he does say so himself.  
   
Except. Obviously the movie just keeps going, when you’re living it for real. You’ve got to actually figure out the capital R Relationship that supposedly comes after.  
   
That’s the part that keeps tripping him up.  
   
_Momotaros._  
   
The familiar feeling of Ryotaro’s thoughts touching his own drags him back to the present. Which is, at this very second, an outdoor café patio on a quiet city street in April 1973, where some sort of time distortion phenomena has been causing customers to blip out of existence and reappear in the same place several days or weeks later, unharmed but bewildered.  
   
_Are you alright?_  Ryotaro asks him. He pauses to smile at the waitress as she sets his cup of tea down in front of him, and she seems utterly dazzled for a moment, wide-eyed as she whispers ‘take your time, sir’ before wandering away in a daze.  _You seem kind of… distracted today._  
   
_Wh – ‘course I’m fine,_  Momo thinks, a little too quick.  _I’m. I’m locked in and, and focused and raring to go and all of that!_  
   
_Ryotaro has a point, Momonoji,_  Kin chimes in.  _You’ve been mighty quiet since we got here. Pretty unusual for a yappy little fellow like you._  
   
_Oi,_  Momo thinks flatly.  _This is a one-on-one conversation over here, Kuma. Mind your own damn business._  
   
_Please, like anything is going to be ‘one-on-one’ at times like this,_  Ura interjects.  _I know you’re not very bright, but you really have to learn this at some point._  
   
Ryuta giggles.  _Not very bright! That’s you, Momotaros!_  
   
Momo jumps into Ryotaro’s body almost without meaning to, out of a desperate subconscious need to slam his hands on the table and leap to his feet with a noise of frustration. “Would you clowns shut the hell up for once!”  
   
The other customers all turn their heads to stare at him, just as the woman at the nearest table wavers around the edges and vanishes into thin air without a trace.  
   
“Ah,” he says, pointing at the empty space that she’d just been occupying.  
   
_That’s our cue, I suppose_ , Ryotaro thinks, with mild amusement.  
   
Momo whips around, sensing some kind of tether from the time distortion, scanning the rooftops of the opposite buildings until he sees them – an Imagin with a face like that of an insect, glittering multifaceted eyes peering over the ledge. Momo scans the street for the simplest route up, zeroing in on the bottom steps of a rusted old fire escape.  
   
“You ain’t gettin’ away,” he mutters, vaulting over the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the patio and breaking into a sprint.  
   
It’s not until later that he realizes he might have overdone it a bit. They’ve pulled into Terminal 2 for some routine maintenance, and he finds Ryotaro on one of the station benches looking decidedly weary, staring out at the sands in a manner that’s distant and half-focused. His suit jacket is discarded next to him, tie loosened around his neck and white shirtsleeves rolled up, making it easy to see the massive dark purple bruise blooming along his forearm. The memory of slamming that arm into their opponent’s tough, plated torso comes rushing back to Momo in an instant, and he winces. When he reaches out to catch him by the elbow, fingertip tracing the edge of the bruise, Ryotaro glances up at him with an eyebrow raised.  
   
“You don’t have to worry about it, you know. Ten years ago you would’ve told me this was a battle scar to be proud of, probably.”  
   
“Yeah, well! Things’re different now.” He clears his throat. “Obviously I don’t like it. Knowing I went and got you hurt ‘cause I wasn’t thinking.”  
   
Ryotaro’s expression softens as he gets to his feet, shrugging his jacket back on. “That you don’t think is what I like about you.” Before Momo can react to that he’s stepping past, heading for the Terminal entrance and looking back over his shoulder as he adds: “They’re having one of those flea markets today. Let’s browse around a bit.”  
   
Momo feels a bit like an obedient dog as he jogs to catch up with him.  
   
(Not a feeling he totally minds, if he’s being honest with himself.)  
   
  
   
  
   
“What do you think about this?” Ryotaro asks, holding up an ornate hairpin fashioned into the shape of a white flower. “I promised nee-san I’d bring her ‘something pretty’ as a souvenir.”  
   
“You’re askin’ the wrong guy about the stuff women like,” Momo says, and Ryotaro’s lips twitch.  
   
“A fine piece,” offers the salesman, who had informed them that he was straight off the train from Portugal circa 1861 when they’d approached his stall. His clothing certainly reflects that. “It was an excellent year for such craftsmanship.”  
   
Momo balks when he tells them the price.  
   
“Hey, buddy,” he growls, leveling a finger in his face. “You know who we are? How about a discount for our service, huh?”  
   
The man’s smile doesn’t waver. “Ah, yes. Part of Den-o, aren’t you? The celebrity hero couple? I am well aware.”  
   
Momo freezes in place with a startled “eh?” Ryotaro has to gently push him aside in order to talk to the salesman man-to-man and skillfully haggle the price down a bit. Momo glowers back at the guy as they leave, who waves to them pleasantly.  
   
“Ain’t it bother you that people know our business like that?” he mutters to Ryotaro.  
   
He seems to ponder this, turning the hairpin over in his hand before tucking it into his suit jacket pocket for safekeeping. “Not really. Does it bother you?”  
   
There it is again: that look like he’s seeing straight through him.  
   
“That’s – I don’t – ”  
   
Before his mind can work out an answer, Ryotaro throws out an arm to halt him in his tracks. He blinks down to find a slick sheen of water coating the tile dangerously close to his feet; follows the trail with his eyes to the decorative fountain nearby, which seems to have malfunctioned and overflowed, a harried-looking repairman drenched up to his elbows as he leans over it with his wrench.  
   
Momo turns back to stare at Ryotaro, impressed. “Damn, you’re really getting good at this,” he says, as the two of them skirt around the growing puddle.  
   
“I mean, it still catches me off guard plenty,” he laughs. “Bad luck can be hard to watch out for.”  
   
Just last week he  _did_  get trapped in an empty train car for three hours after the door jammed, Momo muses. Though he did also snatch an errant coffee mug (tossed by the brat during a tantrum) right out of the air in the split second before it was set to bean him in the face, in a manner so cool and effortless that Momo had maybe, possibly, gone a little weak in the knees. You win some, you lose some, he supposes.  
   
It’s at the very moment he thinks this that a flash of movement and sound from above sends him instinctively reaching out for Ryotaro, yanking him backwards to hold him against his chest.  
   
Something smashes to the floor in the exact place he’d just been standing. A… potted plant? Now reduced to a sad mess of terracotta shards, dirt, and petals. The two of them peer upward, to where a woman in 60s-style fashion is looking distraught from the second level.  
   
“I am  _so_  sorry,” she calls. “I don’t know how that happened! Are you okay?”  
   
“Oh, it’s fine,” Ryotaro calls back, waving a hand as if to brush away the thought. “Everyone’s alright down here.” Quieter then: “Wow, that really illustrated my point, didn’t it?”  
   
“Like hell it’s fine,” Momo snaps. “That coulda put you in the hospital.”  
   
“You know it’s not her fault. And it could’ve, but it didn’t.” He shifts in his arms in order to give him a sidelong look, and it’s only then that Momo realizes how tight he’s holding him, both the hand on his shoulder and waist gripping with a vice-like intensity. “Are you going to be my Teddy from now on?”  
   
Momo lets go of him with a huff of doubtful laughter. “Yeah, right. This was a fluke. I’d do a shit job at that.”  
   
Ryotaro smiles faintly before turning away to reassure the woman, who has dashed down the escalator to apologize again, that he really is fine, please don’t worry, this sort of thing happens around him all the time.  
   
  
   
  
   
“If I remember right…” He tries the handle of an inconspicuous-looking door that Momo has never even noticed before, despite having been down this particular hallway at the back of the Terminal countless times. The door opens easily, and Ryotaro’s eyes brighten, pleased. “It  _is_  this one. C’mon.”  
   
“What’re we doing here, exactly?” Momo asks, following him up the flight of steps inside.  
   
“I was talking to one of the engineers who maintain the trains a couple weeks ago. He told me there was a way to get up onto the roof of this place, so. Obviously I have to check for myself.”  
   
True to the rumor, the door at the top landing opens into bright light and open air.  
   
He can’t deny it’s a nice view. You can see for miles from here. It’s one of those days when the rainbow luminescence of the sky is particularly vivid, tingeing some of the more prominent dunes in faint kaleidoscopic pinks and greens and blues. It’s clear above them, though a few dark clouds in the distance indicate that a storm might later roll in across the sands. The wind whips at them for a minute before settling into a more agreeable breeze.  
   
“Wait,” Momo says slowly. “When you say ‘talking to’ some engineer guy, was he putting the moves on you?”  
   
Ryotaro hums. “I think that’s what he was going for, yeah.”  
   
“Oh, come  _on_.” He paces back and forth with irritation prickling at the back of his neck; stops to fold his arms over his chest, fingers drumming out a sharp rhythm against his bicep. “Why the hell’s this happen so much, anyway? I mean, sure, you’re really… Really, uh…”  
   
He makes a vague gesture at Ryotaro’s face, who tilts his head to the side, not seeming to understand what he’s getting at. Maybe it’s because he gets caught up staring at the part of his lips in this moment that he finds himself blurting out:  
   
“‘Cause you’re sexy now, y’know?”  
   
Ryotaro blinks.  
   
“Sexy,” he echoes.  
   
“Y-yeah!” Momo draws himself up to full height as he nods sagely. “Like you were way cute ten years ago but now you’re really sexy, and honestly it’s kinda freaking me out a little and I dunno what… to do about it…”  
   
He trails off into awkward silence.  
   
When Ryotaro laughs, cheeks dimpling, it’s like part of the weight immediately lifts from him. He steps closer and presses his palms against his chest; slides them up to rest against his shoulders, the look he’s giving him playfully amused and half-lidded in a way that makes something curl hot in the pit of his stomach.  
   
“I think you’re pretty sexy yourself,” he says softly. A thoughtful pause. “Gotta say, the fact that I’m the one who made you look like this is kind of. Telling, in retrospect.” His hand drifts up, thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth, and when he traces the sharp points of his fangs Momo can feel his breath hitch. “Thanks for telling me. About how you feel. You know… this is better, right? It makes more sense. When you just say what’s on your mind. No overthinking things.  
   
“I think that’s… the reason I fell for you,” he continues. “I used to wish I could be that bold. And I got better at it, because you were there. So it doesn’t feel right, seeing you all cautious and lost in thought lately. I’m not saying you can’t be sometimes, but… Not for this long. It’s just not you.”  
   
Momo’s fingers curl into the fabric of Ryotaro’s suit jacket, feeling as if something has just wrapped itself around his chest and squeezed painfully tight.  
   
“I know,” he says, voice thick. “I know, damn it! But I’m – I’m scared, Ryotaro. Honestly, I am. I keep thinkin’… That I don’t really know anything about how this is supposed to work. And if I fuck somethin’ up… You might leave again.” He swallows hard. “I can’t go back to being Den-o without you.”  
   
Ryotaro’s eyes widen, looking a bit as if he’d just been slapped, but he recovers a moment later, grip tightening on Momo’s shoulder.  
   
“That is  _not_  happening,” he says firmly. “And you… You have to know that I don’t expect this to be perfect. I’ve been dealing with you idiots for how many years now? And it’s been a total mess. But I still love you all.” He smiles, a small, affectionately exasperated quirk of the lips. “You get it, right? That I gave up on ‘supposed to’ when I came back here. Other people’s definition of it, at least. None of it – it doesn’t apply anymore. So forget about ‘supposed to,’ okay? Whatever you  _want_  to do, that’s what matters to me. What do you want right now, Momotaros?”  
   
Momo sniffles, blinking hard against the stinging at the corner of his eyes. “I dunno,” he mutters. “All I can think is I really wanna hug you.”  
   
Ryotaro stares at him blankly. “Wow,” he says. “That’s very… wholesome.”  
   
“Shaddup,” he grumbles, pressing his cheek against the softness of his hair as he slides his arms around him. “I’m a wholesome guy, alright?”  
   
“Yeah, I know.” There’s fondness audible in Ryotaro’s voice as he holds onto him in return, palm warm against the nape of his neck. “I like that part of you, too.”  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
That same goddamn guy is bothering him again.  
   
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Momo growls, glaring daggers at the back of his perfect blond head. He’s even got a much-too-friendly hand laid on Ryotaro’s arm. “He said he was taken last time, right? What kind of tool ignores that?”  
   
“Someone who doesn’t care about things like morals,” Ura offers. “Or,  _slightly_  more charitably… Someone who’s simply convinced he was lying about it.”  
   
“Oh, I’ll show him lying.” That hesitation tries to get its claws into him again, but he pushes past it with a noise of annoyance, springing out of his seat with his hands curled into fists at his sides.  
   
“Oi, pal,” he snaps, both the stranger and Ryotaro turning towards him, Ryotaro’s politely detached expression shifting into a pleased smile. “He said he wasn’t interested last week, didn’t he?”  
   
The man gives him a smug, incredulous look that makes his sand itch. “I don’t remember him saying those exact words, no. And who are you supposed to be?”  
   
“I’m – ” He almost falters, then, until something seems to shortcircuit in the space between his thoughts, and he finds himself jabbing a finger in the man’s direction as he shouts: “I’m his goddamn husband, so stop flirting with him in front of me!”  
   
It feels as if the entire Terminal falls silent in this moment.  
   
The stranger stares back at him, brow furrowed, mouth fallen open to voice some rebuttal that he can no longer seem to think of.  
   
Momo glances aside to find Ryotaro with both eyebrows raised.  _Husband?_  he mouths.  
   
“Uh,” Momo says, slightly strangled.  
   
“Seriously?” The man looks from one of them to the other and back again. “When you said you were taken, you meant…”  
   
“Married, yeah,” Ryotaro says smoothly. He slips his hand into Momo’s. “Though someone still hasn’t gotten me a ring.”  
   
The stranger drags a hand through his hair as he laughs, sharp and taken aback. “Right,” he mutters. “Of course.” He studies Momo appraisingly for a long moment before turning back to Ryotaro. “I gotta ask. Is it normal in the time you come from, shacking up with weird monsters?”  
   
Immediately, whatever good will was left on Ryotaro’s face vanishes, his eyes like a window’s shutters being slammed closed. It’s a rare expression on him. Dangerous, in a way that’s hard to look away from. His grip on Momo’s hand tightens, and it sends a thrill up the length of his arm.  
   
“No, it’s not,” he says coldly. “Though I’m not sure why that matters.”  
   
He’s turning on his heel and marching away a second later, tugging Momo along behind him. His pace doesn’t slow until they’ve left the Terminal entirely, out on the platform in front of the Denliner, where he finally comes to a halt, the tense set of his shoulders relaxing as he sighs.  
   
“Sorry,” he says. He’s smiling ruefully as he looks back at him, fingers disentangling from his own. “You probably wanted to punch that guy. It would cause trouble for us, but. Maybe I should’ve let you.”  
   
Momo rubs at the back of his neck. “Honestly, uh. Not really? I was kinda… distracted. You were lookin’ pretty intense there for a minute.”  
   
“Was I?”  
   
“Yeah, I mean, it was…” He clears his throat. “Okay, the thing is. Maybe I’m not actually… the most wholesome guy after all?”  
   
Understanding dawns on Ryotaro’s face, fading into a satisfied sort of amusement a moment later. “Really,” he murmurs. He reaches out to slip two fingers beneath the band of Momo’s belt and tug him closer. “You storming over to defend my honor like that was pretty attractive, too, actually. Very you.”  
   
Momo feels something swoop in the pit of his stomach. “Y-you think so?”  
   
Ryotaro nods, slow and contemplative. “You know, it’ll be a while till the others get back from whatever they’re up to.” He smiles, stepping back through the open doors into the train car, pulling Momo easily along with him. “By the way, do you think we actually should get married? I do feel a little bad lying to people, even if they’re awful.”  
   
“Eh?” Momo says, wide-eyed, halting in his tracks, and nearly gets caught in the Denliner’s doors as they attempt to slide closed behind them.


End file.
